


Favorite Human Garbage Can

by TheOceanIsMyInkwell



Series: I'm Peter, I'm 19 and I Never Learned to Read [12]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Brief Mentions of Bullying, Fluff, Gay Harley Keener, Gen, Harley Keener & Peter Parker Friendship, Humor, LGBTQ Themes, Peter Parker is a Good Bro, There is some cussing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24313807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOceanIsMyInkwell/pseuds/TheOceanIsMyInkwell
Summary: “We can still go,” says Peter, because he can read Harley James Keener like the back of his own hand and he’s a saint who won’t call him out on his emotional vulnerability right now.“Huh?” says Harley, like a genius.“Prom. Uh. I still have my homecoming suit, but I’ve sorta bulked up since then. I dunno if you want me to whip out any of the--the Tom Fordmonstrositiesthat Tony had custom tailored for me for those MIT functions, but--”“Frick. Um. I have exactly one shirt that’s not plaid, and a bunch of suspenders?” Harley says. He doesn’t know what they’re even talking about anymore, how the hell they plan on going to prom, what this all means, where they’re gonna find a proper venue for two teenage monsters, but when Peter opens his mouth and saysjumpHarley doesn’t even blink before he jumps right with him.Peter rolls him a patented squinty Parker look. “That is the most Harley thing you’ve ever said in your life.”--A random late-night video call between Peter and Harley turns into an impulsive plan to go to prom together because they both missed the chance to have a proper one.
Relationships: Harley Keener & Peter Parker
Series: I'm Peter, I'm 19 and I Never Learned to Read [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1394110
Comments: 21
Kudos: 78





	Favorite Human Garbage Can

**Author's Note:**

  * For [floweryfran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/gifts).



> This is for m'darling Fran whose commemorative day of birthing happens within the next 24 hours, like, holy _shit_ you've been on this earth for two decades now, what the hell !! i love you so, , wow!
> 
> Honestly idk what this is, I just had to fling some harley n peter at you, and I also found this really neat [list of found family prompts](https://theoceanismyinkwell.tumblr.com/post/615778999753441280/prompt-list-firsts-in-found-familyfriendships) and responded to #7: first time calling them family.
> 
> Also, the reason Peter and Harley video call (which isn't unusual for any pair of friends to begin with, but Pete and Harley at the beginning of the series only spoke on the phone or texted) is because this takes place after Harley goes deaf.

“Oblivion Hymns ain’t bad.”

Peter’s frown as he hedges over the suggestion is pixelated but still visible on the screen. “They’re not bad, but their style is very…”

“Distinctive?” Harley offers.

“Monotonous,” Peter says. “Yikes. Sorry.”

“No sorry. It’s _your_ yoga playlist.” Harley swirls the last bit of mango pop in his glass bottle, peers down the narrow neck and throws it back in two gulps. “Hey, what about Mattia Cupelli?”

“A little better. Maybe his less epic ones?” Peter’s voice grows muffled as he leans back in his shitty university-issued brick of a desk chair and turns to address the guy who popped his head off-camera into the room. Most likely it’s Dave, the smiley dudebro from down the hall who always needs to borrow something. Sure enough, Peter bends and opens his drawer to fish something out from a plastic Target bag, probably, and tosses it to the guy.

“What did he need this time?”

“Charcoal face mask,” Peter says without missing a beat, his face crinkling in that happy little bunch of creases like the purest inside joke ever. The adorable little shit. “Anywho. Music. Where were we?”

“Uh,” says Harley. “Um. Music. Yoga. Yoga music.”

“Right,” says Peter. “Well, my memory’s shit.”

“It’s the ADHD,” Harley says lightly.

“Honestly, I dunno if the right music is ever gonna help me really focus in yoga. Maybe I’m doing the wrong poses. But I tried cardio yoga with Pepper and, like, I’ve got mutated _muscles_ but that shit had me wheezing after ten minutes and I’m not about that life.”

Harley suppresses a giggle as he picks up on Peter unconsciously parroting his favorite complaint about anything related to athleticism.

“Just straight up play--like--the Jonas Brothers or something,” Harley drawls. 

“Oh, neat,” Peter says in the drollest voice imaginable. He’s learning. “I can just lip sync along to ‘S.O.S.’ while I’m tree-posing.”

“Downward dog to ‘Lovebug’,” Harley snickers.

Peter’s face is stricken with the most teenagerly brand of angst ever. “Oh, God. That is literally all they played at my homecoming dance. Thanks for reminding me.”

Harley hums in agreement. “It was all 2008 Taylor Swift at my prom, ’cause radio music is at least ten years behind down in Tennessee. Don’t get me wrong, I love her new stuff, it’s just--well. Yeah. What about you guys’s prom? What do the good ol’ Yankees force-feed their hormonal teenage monsters?”

Peter snorts with supreme inelegance, as if neither one of them is said teenage monster. Harley wonders briefly if his careless use of _force-feed_ will trigger a mood change in Peter--and curses himself for it at the same time--but apparently the other boy is unfazed.

“I didn’t even go to prom.”

“What!”

“Yeah, I stood up my date at the first homecoming dance because her dad was flying around and wrecking Tony’s shit and I needed to jump on the plane and--you know the story. Um. Second homecoming there was...a giant lizard? Across town? I think? Honestly there are way too many furries and scalies in New York for me to keep track of. So. Um. Yeah. I have a terrible track record with school dances, so I just straight up never planned to go to prom at all. And like, lo and behold, somebody tried to break into the Tower that same night, so it was all gucci. I got there in a flash.”

“In a flash or”--Harley passes for dramatic and dastardly effect--“in Flash’s car?”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Peter says, and then modulates his voice in the same breath to say, “Oh, hey, thanks, man,” to Dave off-camera when the guy presumably hands him back his tube of charcoal face mask.

“I went stag to prom,” Harley reminisces. “Well--actually--I went with Charlie, ’cause she’d just broken up with asshole number one. And I was gay and _not_ ready to come out in Rose Pissin’ Hill on prom night.”

Peter chews his lip. He looks thoughtful, paying a lot more attention to what Harley’s saying than he ever normally lets on. He remembers the times Harley hinted in passing at the idiots who harassed him during junior and senior year. “Those bullies must have been repressed as shit.”

“That, and I just lived in a really fucking homophobic town.”

“Yeah,” says Pete. “That. Too.” His head dips down as he predictably starts to yank at his hangnails. “I mean, if we’d known each other better then...and I lived nearby...I totally would’ve been your date. I mean. Um. Platonically, I guess, or whatever you wanted, and then we could make a statement about how you should be able to take anyone you want as a date to prom, like, friend, family, partner, QPP, whatever. Favorite human garbage can. That sorta thing. But, um. That’s over now, I guess.”

Harley’s brain is still short-circuiting. The best he can do is backtrack to the thing that Peter said that he can’t quite get over. “Wait, so...would I be like...friend? Or partner?”

Peter looks up at him, straight at him through the camera of his phone, with all the sincerity that they’ve achieved somehow in their relationship--whatever _this_ is. Without fear, without a lick of hesitation, he says, “Well, as family.”

“Favorite human garbage can. Same thing,” Harley manages to get out, because his default for the last twenty years of his life has always been to play it off when feelings are choking him.

“We can still go,” says Peter, because he can read Harley James Keener like the back of his own hand and he’s a saint who won’t call him out on his emotional vulnerability right now. Years of getting close to the likes of Tony Stark has taught him that.

“Huh?” says Harley, like a genius.

“Prom. Uh. I still have my homecoming suit, but I’ve sorta bulked up since then. I dunno if you want me to whip out any of the--the Tom Ford _monstrosities_ that Tony had custom tailored for me for those MIT functions, but--”

“Fuck. Um. I have exactly one shirt that’s not plaid, and a bunch of suspenders?” Harley says. He doesn’t know what they’re even talking about anymore, how the hell they plan on going to prom, what this all means, where they’re gonna find a proper venue for--two fucking teenage monsters, but when Peter opens his mouth and says _jump_ Harley doesn’t even blink before he jumps right with him.

Peter rolls him a patented squinty Parker look. “That is the most Harley thing you’ve ever said in your life.”

“Nuh-uh, not true. Once I told Jimmy Kagan his beard looked like a ballsack when he was bein’ hauled away by the police because he was beatin’ on Carly.”

“Sometimes I genuinely wonder where you come up with all these insults or if you’re just pulling my leg. How can one town possibly be full of that many assholes?”

Harley fixes him with a somber look. “Parker, _I_ came outta Rose Hill and I’m the most assified of assholes you’ve ever met.”

“You’re a charming and smart asshole,” Peter corrects him petulantly. “There’s a difference. Now. What color is this singular non-plaid shirt you speak of?”

“Lavender. And, uh. I just remembered it has very light gray check. So...technically not a solid.”

“Welp, taking away your prints would be like taking away your Keener-ness.”

“You should wear the Tom Ford,” Harley decides. “Wear the most ridiculous Tom Ford that Tony gave you. We’re gonna take a shit town of pictures and you’re gonna have your uber-tailored lapels made of silk and your bulky shoulder pads like--fucking Balmain--and I’m gonna be there at your side grinnin’ in my half-buttoned hick shirt and suspenders and khakis while you look constipated.”

“I do _not_ look constipated.”

“After you see the playlist I’m bringin’ with me, you’ll be so constipated.”

“Why do you always make me regret being nice to you,” Peter whines.

“That’s my Harley Keener charm,” the other boy drawls. “No takebacks now. Apparently I’m _family_.”

“Ew.”

“You’re my compadre,” Harley goes on with a horrendous roll of his _r_. “Hermano. Mi cuate, mi tío--”

“You’re just as bad in every language,” Peter says shrilly as he slaps his hands over his ears. “Please, _please_ stick to being a gay Southern disaster.”

Harley doubles over cackling and manages to choke out, “Oh, _oh_ , darlin’, I got the _range_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how to end things apparently when I'm elbows deep in doritos and sad acoustic music
> 
> (also peter has cuban heritage in my verse hence the spanish jokes) 
> 
> pls tell me if you liked it! what stood out! what was a little meh!! if you have any other ideas or prompts from the list I used, or any other prompts at all!! thank you and muwah <3 -kaleb
> 
> muh tumblr: theoceanismyinkwell  
> muh insta: kc.barrie


End file.
